


No Big Deal

by Silfrvarg



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason doesn't know why he puts up with this crap, Tim being an idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 06:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14490429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silfrvarg/pseuds/Silfrvarg
Summary: Tim is going to have words with the supplier that sold him this armour. Strong words. He had bought it under the assumption that it would be stab proof. Even stab resistant would have been nice. He hadn’t been expecting it to be cut through like tissue paper thanks to Victor Zsasz’s knife.





	No Big Deal

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what happens when I sit down and write a last minute response to April's whump challenge instead of sleeping. I honestly don't even know if this is coherent so just go with me on this one. Also, bear in mind that Tim isn't exactly thinking straight in this fic, so the assumptions he makes are suspect at best.

Tim is going to have words with the supplier that sold him this armour. _Strong_ words. He had bought it under the assumption that it would be stab proof. Even stab _resistant_ would have been nice. He hadn’t been expecting it to be cut through like tissue paper thanks to Victor Zsasz’s knife.

It had been a lucky hit, a last minute wild swing that had connected an instant before Tim’s staff took him down, hard. The madman is now very much unconscious, bound head to toe and awaiting transport back to Arkham, and really, Tim would _love_ to stick around for that, but then there’d be some concerned police officer trying to get him into an ambulance for the _freely bleeding stab wound_ , and, just, yikes.

No, right now he needs to get off the streets and take care of this _without_ potentially disastrous hospital trips.

So the minute he sees the red and blue of sirens he’s off, firing a grapple at the nearest convenient gargoyle and soaring over the streets, one hand clasped to the wound near his side and hoping he’s not leaving too much of a trail.

It’s ok, he’s had worse. He just needs to get somewhere safe and patch himself up, that’s all. No big deal.

Three blocks over, and five to go to the nearest safehouse, he’s beginning to re-evaluate that idea, because swinging from rooftops with a big slash to his left side is even less fun than advertised, the strain on the muscles jarring the injury with every sweep. The dizzy, shaky feeling that’s begun to sneak up on his isn’t exactly conductive to aerial acrobatics either.

If he groans a little when he pulls himself up onto the next rooftop, well, there’s no one to hear him up here, or to see him stumble to the nearest wall and lean against it like his life depends on it.

Up until now he’s been very pointedly _Not Looking At It._ Denial isn’t usually his thing, he prefers to know what he’s dealing with, but he’d hoped that he could get into a nice safehouse well stocked with medical supplies before he had to face the reality of just how badly he was hurt.

Judging by how his head is spinning, how he’s panting a little even though swinging across rooftops doesn’t even count as light exercise, well, he might just have to bump up his estimate of how much blood he’s losing.

He needs to know what he’s dealing with. Steeling himself, he looks down, and wow, it’s kinda hard to tell cause his suit is already red but that seems like a _lot_ of blood. With a hiss he peels back the torn edges of his suit to reveal the damage, and oh, wow, that’s deeper than he’d hoped.

With the low light lenses in his cowl he can see blood, fat, _muscle_ and this is _bad_.

He’s been able to push aside the pain until now, because that’s the job isn’t it. You go out, you fight, you get hit and you keep going, even when it hurts. And it does, it _hurts_ , a savage, ripping sort of pain that threatens to take his breath away, threatens to drown out every thought in his head now that he’s given it a moments attention.

Trying his best to keep breathing through the pain he opens up his pouches, digging through them with shaking fingers until he finds what he needs. A tube of expanding foam. It’s not entirely unlike what you’d use to fix a hole in the wall, just it’s meant to help fix holes in him. Well, not fix, but it should slow the bleeding enough.

It hurts like a bitch though, and he bites his lip to keep from screaming as he forces himself to put pressure on the wound, to help the foam make a seal and at least slow the bleeding enough to keep him alive long enough to fix himself.

He needs to keep moving, needs to get up and get to the safehouse, get somewhere where he can do something about this-

And really, who is he kidding. He knows he can’t deal with a wound this bad on his own. Even if he keeps from passing out long enough to get the bleeding under control, he can’t just stitch this one up himself like he usually does. He’s going to need surgery. _Proper_ surgery.

Shit. He has to call for help.

A few months ago, a few weeks even that wouldn’t have been an issue. There are plenty of bats and bat related vigilantes in the city right now, and, theoretically, any one of them would be able to answer his distress signal.

Or, they would be if he was still linked into the system.

See, the thing about Batman being angry with you is that he makes sure you know it, and that everyone _around_ you knows it. _All_ the bats knew what he’d nearly done to Boomerang, how close he’d come to crossing that line, and apparently that was enough to make him _persona non grata_ in Gotham.

He hadn’t quite been asked to leave the city, but none of the bats would work with him anymore. His access codes to the ‘family’ safehouses had been voided, his communications, his computers all disconnected from the main system. There were other ways to call for help of course, but, really, he had no guarantee that if he called, anyone would pick up. Not anymore.

He could call Bruce, he’s sure, even after what he did the man wouldn’t just let him die, but his stomach twists painfully ( _more_ painfully) even at the thought of it. He just can’t- he can’t deal with the silence, with the _disappointment_.

He could call Dick, and before Dick would have been his first call, because his older brother would always be there to _catch_ him. But now, with everything between them, with the _why didn’t you believe me_ almost as bad as the _why did you replace me_ \- well, it’s almost worse than Bruce.

Alfred would answer, in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even hesitate to rush across the city against the express wishes of Bruce. And that’s why Tim can’t ask him.

Damian, well, _Damian_. Little brat might just take the chance to finish him off. He knows that isn’t fair, knows that Damian is a product of his upbringing, that he’s been _trying_ , but he still can’t look at him without expecting to be stabbed in the back. Or maybe in the front.

Steph, well, as far as he knows she’s at university trying to live her life. Cass is in Hong Kong.

There’s no one else to call though, and Tim hadn’t realised just how cut off, just how _alone_ he was until now.

He huffs something out, and he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob because the pain, it’s _bad._

He’s not thinking straight, he knows he’s not. Between the pain and the blood loss his judgement is impaired. There’s something wrong with his reasoning, and he knows it. He still can’t make himself call for help though, even though he needs it, _desperately_ needs it.

Because. What if they don’t answer. What if nobody answers and help doesn’t come and he ( _don’t say it_ ) dies here, bleeding out on a rooftop to Victor Zsasz of all bloody people.

Zsasz? Come on. The guy is dangerous sure, fast enough and mean enough to land a good hit on him and he likes to think that’s not too easy these days, but really, if he was going to go out, he was expecting it to be one of the main guys.

Joker, trying to put another birdy in the ground. Two face, or Scarecrow. Hell, Ra’s would probably be personally offended he didn’t get to do the deed himself. Or just offended that Tim got himself killed instead of joining him as his ‘heir’. Could go either way.

Hell, Red Hood would’ve been on the list too. Guy had certainly wanted to kill him bad enough, had come closer than anyone else, had held his fingers to his throat, felt for a pulse, found none, and _smiled._

Red Hood, Jason… who was in the city. Who was still shooting criminals, but usually not fatally. Who hadn’t taken a shot at anyone even loosely affiliated with the bats in weeks.

Jason who hated him, who had tried to kill him, a _couple_ of times.

Shit. He was really doing this wasn’t he? Blood loss. Pain. It had to be. There was no way he would be _crazy_ enough to call to Red Hood of all people for help.

Phones already dialling though, because of _course_ he found Jason’s number, he just never thought he’d have to use it.

He picks up. He _picks up_ and Tim nearly faints from relief. Or pain. Which would be bad, because bleeding.

“Yeah, who the hell is this and what do’ya want?” Jason growls over the line, and Tim didn’t have a plan for this, didn’t honestly expect him to answer the phone, so he just says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I fucked up!”

“What, who is- Replacement?” Jason asks, disbelieving, seemingly too shocked to be angry, “What the fuck are you calling _me_ for?”

“ _I fucked up!_ ” he gasps, his breath coming in short pants, “Took a hit. Zsasz. Asshole. Armour didn’t hold.”

“Yeah, sucks to be you but, again, why are you calling _me_?” Jason asks, halfway between angry and confused.

“Couldn’t think of anyone else. Bat’s aren’t… well, I fucked up. I don’t know if they’d… There’s a _lot_ of blood. I can’t, I don’t think I can _fix_ this Hood. And I don’t know why-“ He has to stop, panting again because he just can’t get enough _air_ , “I don’t _know_ why I called you. I just did. Figured… figured it was worth a shot.”

“Jesus kid, you’ve always been a pain in my ass why the hell would it be any different now,” Jason sighs, and he sounds, just, tired, annoyed, not homicidal.

And that’s a good thing, but Tim feels bad for calling now, because this? This isn’t Jason’s problem. _He_ isn’t Jason’s problem.

“Look, hood, just- forget it, ok? There’s a safe house five blocks from here. I’ll figure something out.”

“You ain’t gonna make it five blocks and we both know it. I can’t believe this shit. Just, hold tight ok?”

“No, Hood, you don’t have-“

“Your dumb ass called me for help replacement, so stay fucking still, alright? You don’t want my help you shouldn’t have asked me for it. Jesus you must be crazy, and I must be crazy for agreeing, but I ain’t gonna let you just bleed out on a rooftop. That’s a lame way to die.”

Jason is moving, he can hear that much, can hear the low growl of a motorbike’s engine in the background.

Tim, well, it might be the hypovolemic shock talking, but he really doesn’t know what’s going on anymore. Everything is a little blurry, and he knows enough to know that’s bad, to know that he’s pretty damned close to passing out right now.

Apparently Jason knows it too, because there’s a pissed off Red Hood yelling in his ear.

“Hey, asshole, you’d better stay awake. I am _not_ rushing over there just to have you die on me. You pass out and I’ll end you myself, y’feel me?”

“Bossy.” Tim grumbles.

“Damned straight,” Jason growls back, “Now did you crash on the rooftop or in the alleyway, ‘cause I got a lock on you but it ain’t that accurate.”

“Rooftop.”

“Jeez, gotta make it hard don’t’cha.”

“Wasn’t gonna risk the alley. Don’t think I can fight right now.” Tim admits.

“Sure you can. You’d just lose.” Jason snorts, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but Tim swears he can hear the engine.

Apparently it’s not, because he drifts for a few seconds and then there’s a sharp stinging in his cheek, his head ringing a little. He blinks in confusion because Jason is right there, staring at him through white lenses.

“Did you just slap me?” Tim asks, more bemused than offended even if he can feel blood in his mouth.

“Wouldn’t have had to if you’d have listened to me and stayed _awake_.”

“Wasn’t sleeping, was just-“

“Dying from blood loss. I told you asshole, that’s a lame way to die. You can do better. Go big or go home.”

And there’s no warning before there’s hands behind his knees and neck and he’s being lifted _bridal style_. The embarrassment is almost as bad as the pain that rips across his side at the movement. Almost.

If he whimpers a little, well, Jason doesn’t point it out, just starts walking.

“You need to put on some weight replacement, shouldn’t be this easy to carry you. Even if you are short.”

“M’not short, just… compact.” Tim retorts, clenching his fists to ride out the waves of pain that come with every step down the stairwell.

“Compact. Right.” Jason drawls.

“It’s not my fault you’re all giants.” Tim grumbles.

He loses track a little, but they’re down the stairs now, out of the building and in front of the bike, and Jason is looking at him dubiously, before hoisting him and helping him onto the rear seat.

“You gonna be able to hold on?” He asks.

Tim musters what energy he has left, because really, he didn’t expect Jason to come, much less help him down the stairs and out of the building. If Jason is actually willing to help him, surely he can do this much.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll manage.”

It’s not quite a lie. As Jason climbs onto the bike he leans forwards and holds on tightly. As the bike roars down Gotham’s streets he focuses on holding on as tight as he can.

The world is a blur, he’s dizzy and feeling sick, gasping and panting and he knows that the hypovolemic shock train is pretty close to reaching it’s destination. He just needs to hold on a little while longer though. The rushing sound in his ears doesn’t matter, the feeling like his heart is going to beat out of his chest doesn’t matter.

The heavy, unsettling feeling of danger, something in the back of his head or tingling down his spine that he can’t quite describe, the voice in his head whispering that he’s going to die, that this is it?

Well, that matters.

But not as much as holding on.

He doesn’t realise when they stop, still keeps his arms wrapped around Jason because that’s all he can remember to do.

His arms are gently being pried off. Someone is lifting him and he tries to see who but everything seems to fade. He’s aware of being lifted, carried, and there’s a voice, someone telling him to stay awake.

“S’rry.” He manages to mumble out, before everything slides away.

He thinks he hears his name.

 

_“Tim?”_

 


End file.
